


this is all that's left

by aqua_marine



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abandoning Your Humanity, Angst, Canon-Typical Bad Decisions, Gen, Lonely!Martin, a bit of, wild speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 18:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20262346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqua_marine/pseuds/aqua_marine
Summary: Martin is becoming nothing.-"Youcan't," Martin said. Jon's eyes flickered up from his desk, heavily shadowed, but they glazed over Martin with only the slightest hitch. "Jon. Jon, are you listening?Don't go to Hilltop Road."Jon did not hear him.-(SPOILERS FOR MAG 146-149)





	this is all that's left

Martin is becoming nothing.

The funny thing is, he didn't even _notice_ it at first. He walked through the halls of the Institute and stuck to the shadows; of _course_ people didn't look his way. He didn't _want_ to be noticed.

That was the deal he made. Himself, his well being, is a sacrifice to the Lonely, and Peter keeps Jon safe. It doesn't _matter_ whether Martin wants to be noticed. He chose this and he will not regret it. Yet--

He didn't realize he was going to become _nothing_.

It started, really, with a pen. He hadn't had any in his office, and when he called out, Peter didn't respond. This wasn't unusual; Peter was being sketchy at the best of times, and since he had mentioned a family gathering, he hadn't responded to any of Martin's attempts to contact him. ...This also meant that Martin had to leave the office.

It shouldn't have been a problem. Tim's desk still had the bare essentials; writing implements, empty filing folders, a few sheets of loose paper. All Martin had to do was walk out, grab one of the pens, and then he could return, unimpeded by anyone else. It should have been _easy_.

When he walked out of the office and over towards Tim's dusty desk, he heard his name. It was through a door, and the voices were muffled, but the words were still clearly identifiable. Martin stepped towards them before he realized what he was doing--and found that he didn't want to move away.

Melanie was spitting something angrily, Basira interrupting her, and then--_Jon_. 

"_Four. Including Floyd? Five_."

The tape that Martin had given them. Five people, Jon had extracted statements out of. _Five people_. Martin had heard what he had done, _seen_ it in that woman's face, and Jon had just _kept going_. Martin was tempted to open the door and try to knock some sense into him, but the agreement with Peter had to be more important. As long as Jon was _safe_\--

It didn't really matter, anyway, because Martin's anger was washed away as he continued to listen. Jon sounded _awful_. Exhausted, hopeless, as if the life had seeped out of him--a far cry from the Jon that Martin was so accustomed to. Basira and Melanie hardly even seemed to notice; they pushed and pushed until Jon went quiet and unresistant. Martin took another step forward.

As soon as he heard the name _Annabelle Cane_, he froze. Letting them go to Hilltop Road was _not an option_. Peter wasn't here to hold up his end of the bargain, and Martin needed them to stay safe; they had to stay away from Annabelle Cane. He _couldn't let_-

He opened the door. Not one head turned to him as they talked among themselves, and Martin crossed his arms with narrowed eyes. They probably wouldn't listen to him, but he had to try, just for his own sake. Maybe he could keep Jon away--let the others tangle themselves up in Annabelle's web _without_ him.

"You _can't_," Martin said. Jon's eyes flickered up from his desk, heavily shadowed, but they glazed over Martin with only the slightest hitch. "Jon. Jon, are you listening? _Don't go to Hilltop Road_."

Jon did not hear him. Martin tried to tamp down on his panic and slammed his palms on Jon's desk. "Don't go, Jon. Annabelle is a liar. She will never give you what you want. You _can't_ go." 

Basira opened the door and left.

"So," said Jon. "We're going with her."

Martin grit his teeth; if he was anything like Peter, he could appear _at will_. Jon would _see him_, and he would _listen_. "You are not leaving the Archives, Jon, I swear--

Melanie and Daisy got up; as Daisy moved towards the door, her arm passed through Martin's body and it came apart in swirls of mist. Martin went silent and watched with vague horror as he reformed. This was _not_ him. Martin Blackwood was a human being, not some--some pile of fog in a human mold. Peter was real; Martin was real.

(He'd never seen Peter bleed.)

The room was now empty, aside from Jon; the Archivist sighed heavily and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes before looking up. Martin stared at him, only inches away, his fingernails digging into the wood of the desk. He knew they wouldn't leave a mark when he let go.

"Jon, please. I know--I know I haven't been very... present, lately--" he laughed sharply, not that he found it funny--"and I know it's my fault, and you're... well, it doesn't matter. But you have to listen. You won't find answers at Hilltop Road. She's just getting you into more trouble. Don't do what the spider wants; you're only going to wrap yourself tighter."

Jon didn't respond, and Martin couldn't bring himself to try and put a hand on his shoulder. Instead he took a few steps back and hesitated, briefly, before turning away. Jon was looking forward, where Martin stood, but his eyes were blank. Not unseeing, of course, but for all of the things they did see, apparently he was not one of them.

Martin slipped out of the room before a sob could escape him; as the door shut behind him, Jon's voice followed--"Hm? What was that? Is--is anybody there?" 

Martin did not turn around.

A day later, he found all of his pens wrapped in spiderweb and stuck to the back of his desk. 

\--

The thought that he was losing himself wouldn't leave Martin alone.

It didn't make sense, which was what really annoyed him; he could hold things in his hands, touch the walls of his office, feel rain on his skin when he went outside. He was still a person, and yet--

He hadn't eaten in a while. He only realized this when he thought about it, his stomach twisting as if it needed food, even though it had to have been, what--two, three days? There was no way he had just _forgotten_ about something so important.

_Jon eats statements,_ said Martin's brain, unhelpfully. _Maybe you should try something else_.

He ignored that as best he could and went out to a coffee shop; the food tasted dull and it was hard to swallow, turning to dust that clung to his throat. ...He'd just have to try a different place next time.

When he came back, the rest of the Archival staff was gone. It wasn't exactly a surprise, and Martin had given up being worried--he shouldn't even be thinking about them. Peter might have been absent, but Martin still had his duties.

He hadn't tried to talk to anyone else since his failure to get through to Jon. Though he tried to sidestep it whenever the thought arose, _that_ was the thing that loomed over him constantly. If he couldn't make himself known, what did that mean he was? A human, a ghost? Little more than a faint imprint where someone once was?

There was a yellow door next to the one that lead to his office. This wasn't as surprising as it should have been--Helen had taken up residence in the Archives some time ago. Martin tried to avoid her whenever possible--it wasn't personal. 

It _was_ somebody to talk to, though. Peter wasn't even here to tell Martin off about it. Maybe Helen didn't even count as somebody; she was just as much a monster as him. Probably more. ...Maybe more.

He knocked on the wood, yellow flakes of paint fluttering to the floor as his knuckles made contact. The door swung open a moment later, but Martin didn't enter--the Lonely might have had some sort of agreement with Spiral, but Martin himself had spent _weeks_ wandering those corridors and had absolutely no desire to go back in. 

Instead, he waited. Helen would come, or she would not. Maybe she would walk out and look around, searching for someone who wasn't there. Maybe she would leave the door open and let Martin decide. Maybe she'd drag the Archive crew out, back from Hilltop Road. Maybe nothing.

"You look less than last I saw you," said a familiar, distorted voice. She was standing in the door frame, leaning to one side, eyeing Martin curiously. "You and Jon both."

For a moment, Martin had time to be annoyed at that, and then it disappeared under a wave of relief. "Helen? You can--you can see me?"

"I'm not blind, Mr. Blackwood. Though, I must say, you really aren't much to look at." She smiled as she said it, her sharp teeth bared, and then let out a distorted chuckle as Martin's eyes narrowed. "Oh, don't be so uptight, Mr. Blackwood. It's only a joke."

"...Right. Yeah." Martin exhaled; now that he knew he was still existing in some form, he wasn't certain what to do. He couldn't just _dismiss_ her. "So..."

Helen snorted, tapping a long finger against the door frame. "You should really eat more. You're looking a bit pale." She laughed at that, too. Martin gritted his teeth.

"What do you suggest, then?" he asked. "Go out and tear people's stories from their heads?"

Helen raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Martin's irritation, and kept her mocking smile plastered on. "I can't say I know much of the Lonely, but I'm fairly certain that isn't the way to go about it. Perhaps your Archivist might know; maybe you should ask him." 

Martin scuffed a shoe against the floor and turned abruptly to away from Helen and towards his office--only to stop when Helen sighed loudly. 

"You needed something, didn't you, Mr. Blackwood? Go ahead, then. Ask me."

Martin dug his nails into his palms. "Why?" he said. It came out a lot more tired than he had thought it would, and he wanted to take it back, but it had been a long time since he had talked to someone who would listen. The words came unbidden, "Why can you see me? Why can't Jon? Why can't I make myself be seen? You must know _something_."

Helen remained unimpressed, still leaning casually in the doorway. "Of course I do," she said. Most--but not all--of the amusement had left her. "It's just not what you want to hear."

Martin hardly had to contemplate it at all before he replied, "Tell me anyway. No one else will."

Helen paused briefly before continuing, her lips pressed together. It was the most solemn Martin had ever seen her. "The only way to survive is to accept it. Helen knew she would never escape those corridors, so she turned elsewhere to find a way out. That's how she got here." She gestured to herself with an over-sized, bony hand. 

"It's not _me_," Martin protested. "We're not in the same position. I'm _not_ the Lonely." 

Helen hummed. "One could easily argue against that. Avatars become facets of Fears; there is no choice about it. The only choice is whether you fight it or you don't, and in Helen's experience, one is much more lucrative than the other. Just look at the Captain--Peter Lukas. And Jude Perry, Simon Fairchild--it's the secret, Mr. Blackwood, whether you like it or not."

Martin stuffed his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt. "First off, I'm not certain I believe you. But _if_ you're telling the truth--" he bit his lip before continuing--"if you are, really, will I... will I be able to talk to people again?"

The amusement was back, as fast as it had left. "Perhaps, perhaps not, but... why do you want to? I was under the impression you had made a _deal_."

"Yes, but _Jon_\--"

"It's always Jon, isn't it? Don't you think that the Captain will be able to protect your Archivist better than you can? He certainly has more... presence." Helen let out another twisted laugh and Martin clenched his fists tighter.

"He's not even here!"

"He's more here than _you_ are." 

They both went quiet for a moment, Helen's laughter petering out. She kicked the door frame once, watching more yellow paint flake off and rest on the floor. The wood was a darker yellow underneath. 

"Mr. Blackwood, you can take my advice or you can ignore it. I have no say in the matter. Either way, I believe we're done here." She paused briefly, looking past Martin into the empty Archives. "Also, it appears that your Archivist has returned."

She reached out and patted Martin's shoulder with one large, sharp hand, before smiling at him widely and slamming the door shut behind her as she disappeared into her corridors.

The door to the Archives opened, and Martin retreated to his office before he could see what had happened to the Archival crew.

\--

Martin is becoming nothing, which is why he doesn't find it that hard to sit next to Jon when he records his statements. Jon won't notice him, no matter how much he tries. Helen's advice sits at the back of his mind, taunting him, and he ignores it as best he can.

It's probably better this way. Seeing Jon does not make him any less lonely, so he prefers to think that it's not breaking any terms of his agreement. Peter hasn't come back from his family meeting to chastise him yet, either, so there's no one to tell him he's wrong.

Then Basira comes back from visiting Elias. 

She says she'll put Jon down if she has to, and Martin jerks upright from where he's sitting on the couch in the break room. 

Martin has been recording statements, managing the research division of the Institute, but in his spare time he sits on the couch in the break room where he, Tim, and Sasha used to hang out when Jon didn't have them running errands. He finds it morbidly fascinating to watch himself break apart and reform out of fog when people pass through him--but none of that matters now.

"Basira," he snaps, knowing that his words will do nothing, "you _can't_ do that. You need Jon. _We need Jon_."

Martin does not think, _I need Jon_.

And because he is hardly anything anymore, except for a bit of fog in the air, neither of them listen. Martin buries his fingernails into his palms as deep as he can; the crescent marks they leave disappear as soon as he uncurls his hands. 

"Jon," he says, and pauses. Basira says something; Jon replies. Martin can't hear them. "_Jon_."

_Nothing_.

Jon gets up, says something about getting something to eat. Martin follows him out of the break room and to his office. 

"Jon, you have to listen to me. I know--I know it's too late. I know that. For me. Not for you, Jon. You can fight this." _You can accept it_. "Somehow, I know--I _know_ you're strong enough for this. I'm not, but _you are_. You're going to find some way out and you're going to get better. You have to _listen_."

Jon doesn't hear him.

"Jon, please," says Martin as Jon continues to walk. "Use your Eyes. _See_ me. _Please_." 

Jon doesn't hear him.

"Jon," Martin repeats, a hoarse whisper. "Jon." 

The Lonely waits for him, Helen says. Martin can feel the Lonely all around him, in his veins, clinging to his skin. He can't shake it off. It pools around his feet and fills his mouth. 

"Jon?"

The Archivist pauses. He looks up.

"M--Martin?"

Martin turns tail and flees.

\--

He started this for Jon. To keep Jon safe. He has to go further. 

The Lonely is in his skin, and he lets it sit there and hum with satisfaction. It's in his words, his breath, his blood. It moves when he wants it to, because it knows that he won't leave; won't push it away.

He records a statement; another supposedly for the Extinction. It feels off, to record when he's like this, more than it ever has before. The Eye is on him when he does, and the Lonely does not want to be known. He gets through it.

Peter will be happy. ...If he ever comes back.

He's interrupted when somebody finds their way into the Archives--someone who is not supposed to be there. "Excuse me?" Martin says, walking towards them. He has to try, just on principle. "Excuse me, this area's off-limits to the public."

He almost jumps out of his skin when the person turns to face him and says, "Sorry?" 

She can see him. She can _hear him_. He's done it.

Exchanging words is a foreign art to him at this point, and her eyes on him make him distinctly uncomfortable, but he tries his best to act as if he's a human being and not some--some _thing_ that's just _playing_ at it. 

The woman is Georgie, he learns. He's seen her a few times, heard of her from Jon. She knows who he is, too. They play at conversation, both of them snapping fiercely at each other. 

"Sometimes, helping people _hurts_," Martin says at one point, and he tries to stop his voice from breaking. It _does_ hurt. Every second with the Lonely wound around him, his limbs grow colder. His bones ache deeply. 

Then Georgie _replies_, frosty, and all Martin can think is, _Worth it_.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm really sorry about this.  
2\. Helen is _so fun to write_, I love her.  
3\. the phrase 'petering out'. think about it.  
4\. thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> please consider leaving a comment if you have the time! they give me life.


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